Loss of Power

Well, the doctors, they did the bobops(ies.) On Monday my doctor took a biopsy of the mass in my left breast. The previous mammograms and ultrasounds revealed two masses on the left side but since they were so close together and on the same “radial” there was no need to biopsy both. The idea is that if they needed to be removed, they would both be removed together. Tuesday, I had a mammogram-guided biopsy at a radiologist’s office with the goal being to biopsy the calcification that had been discovered. There is a fourth mass in my right breast but because it had shown no change since my last mammogram then they deemed it unnecessary to biopsy. That’s the straight facts. If you want to know how I experienced both of these, keep reading.

Tom took me to my biopsy on Monday morning, previously labeled as a telework day so that we could complete a 40 hour training for work. Side note: Something this Summer told me to complete the entire training. Yes, I spent my Summer break doing the training, no I was not paid for that time. Yes, I believe that a higher power was clearing my schedule. My doctor had prescribed Valium for me to take before the procedure. Knowing that I was scheduled for two biopsies, he prescribed exactly two pills for me. I appreciate that he was mindful that I would be scared shitless AND also knew that I didn’t need any more than two. Cost of those two pills after insurance: $.61. The doctor that I am seeing has an office in Old Town, located precisely within the building where we hosted my dad’s funeral reception a little over a year ago. I can’t make this up. 

Tom went back with me for the biopsy. As we entered the room, I said to the nurse, 

“If he looks like he’s gonna faint, please just get him out of here.”

The biopsy could not have gone smoother. The doctor walked me through every step. I requested a blanket so that I felt more secure, and something to squeeze with my right hand. I was offered a pillow or a towel and just grabbed the towel. The whole procedure took about 10-15 minutes. By the time we left the medicine had fully kicked in and I was calm and oddly hungry. We stopped at Call Your Mother for breakfast and coffee and sat outside on the most beautifully blustery and crisp Fall day and I’m so grateful for every second of that time with Tom. I’m also grateful that just a few blocks away my mom was taking our girls to breakfast and loving them in a way that only a Grandmother can. I am so very fortunate.

On Tuesday Kristin picked me up at school to take me to my second biopsy. I was overconfident. The ride to the office consisted of her most graceful yield to my needs and topics of discussion while still being the best friend you could ask for and the best and most spot-on DJ that one could hope for while heading to a biopsy. As we settled in to wait, we shared a double seat and chatted about the (pink) pumpkin decor, the bizarre music mix, and the series of art paintings that had been installed in this radiology center’s waiting room. 

When called back I was briefed on the process of the procedure, asked to change, and asked to sign a release form. I started to cry. Part of it was not knowing how the procedure would go, and part of it was just the reality of it all. I was escorted to the procedure room and told to climb up onto a long plastic table. The table was about five feet off the ground so I used a step stool to reach it. I then had to lay on my stomach and, well, let my right breast basically dangle down into a hole in the table. Let me first say that I never lay on my stomach because I have had large breasts for most of my life and it’s downright uncomfortable, so you can imagine that this scenario was even worse. My left breast was squished against the table and I immediately started to panic. At this point my right arm is above my head, my right breast is hanging through a hole in the table, my left breast is painfully squished against the hard table, my left arm is bent so that my wrist is at my forehead, and my neck is turned to face the left. That is where I will stay for about the next fifteen minutes. Trust me, this is just as uncomfortable for me to write as it is for you to read. 

Next a mammogram machine under the table compressed my breast, I was numbed several times with a needle, then a machine guided a needle biopsy, taking three samples. The area biopsied was flushed, a titanium marker was inserted into that spot, and the biopsy was done. Except that my breast had to remain compressed to stop the bleeding. For ten more minutes. The longest ten minutes of my life. I then got up to go to another room for a mammogram that would confirm the placement of the marker. I looked to see what appeared to be a teeny tiny wire brush floating in a circle of black and surrounded by all these fine white lines of “dense breast tissue.” The worst curse of all. Tissue that hides spots and lumps and calcifications and cancer.

Kristin and I talked and laughed on the way home and I took an hour long nap before moving onto other life errands. 

Later that evening I texted Kristin to thank her for taking me to this appointment and tell her the track that had been playing during that awful procedure-Danger Zone. Just as the needle was going in I’d heard, “Highway to the Danger Zone. Ride into the Danger Zone.”

She texted back: 

“Danger Zone, my least favorite Kenny Loggins song…Let’s figure out how many Russian migs we need to obliterate.”

And this is exactly what we need when we are so scared, while we are waiting for the results, while we are imagining the worst case scenario. We need Tom to help us order really nice teas for sipping, and Jennie to say that exhaustion right now is absolutely normal and expected, and Shannon to give you half her cold refreshing seltzer when you can barely stay awake, and Brooke to remind you to tell your irrational brain, “Thank you for protecting me, but I’m gonna be ok” and Rachael to send you sweet memories and Katie to tell you that even when she can’t find the time in a school day when we aren’t around children, that she is always thinking about me. 

I have no idea what to expect from this journey, I just know for sure that I will be carried.